


Breath

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-02
Updated: 2005-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 06:38:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/353214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kal's night out.  Warnings for torture, rape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breath

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all who followed and commented on this fic in WiP form, and worship to beta littledrop, aka Kirsten Sea. Fast. Encouraging. _loves_ Thanks to svmadelyn for hosting the wip itgood challenge which lit a fire under us all to finish our stories. Finally, much love to team wip_cabal. 

## Breath

by Devin

[]()

* * *

Disclaimer: Smallville and its characters belong to the WB and DC Comics. Just borrowing. _pats their heads and puts them back_

* * *

Christmas Eve, and it's raining in Metropolis. Snow predicted for the New Year, but tonight this glaze on the city - wet and the first milky traces of ice. He watches the yellow, red, green, yellow, red, green of the stoplights' synchronized wink along the empty avenue, downtown deserted for the holiday weekend, but it all shines so cleanly for him. Lex won't share this - drinks his loneliness at his penthouse window. Cognac, not scotch, for an event as momentous as a virgin birth. Salud, Madonna. Lex savors the warmth of the drink, the cool he feels coming from the glass a few steps away. 

How heavy a piece of furniture would he need to break one of these panes? Would he pass out or remain conscious on the way down? He runs a few mental calculations, decides the chaise in the third guest suite might do the job. 

He knows he won't keep any of this fortune much longer. Not with his father out of prison, out there somewhere, plotting. Perhaps he's already here in Metropolis. Lex will fight, of course, but he'll lose like he has every time with Lionel. Someday soon he'll kill his father. He's on the verge, but he doesn't want the damnation yet. He wants Clark just a little longer, even with this nearly-nothing they almost share. Nothing as substantial as lip prints on crystal as he sips. 

Or as breath. Turning, Lex reaches for a blown-glass ornament hanging from the Christmas tree he decorates himself each year. It's heavy, a pretty amber -- a vessel for human breath. No one treasures the breath, of course, but the glass. Now that's worth something. He wants breath - sweet, like cornbread. Breath of a farmer's son on his neck. Can almost feel it with his eyes closed. God. Clark. He lets the bauble drop. Doesn't quite snap the pine twig when it swings -- too green -- but almost. 

Fuck, he's maudlin tonight. Not tired. He could jump. Nothing so passive as falling. Merry Christmas, son. Had any hallucinations lately? Actually I have, Dad. White suit. A rain of blood. Missiles everywhere. Grab the electrodes. 

* * *

Christmas Eve. Everything about the loft feels damp, the rain pounding hard, leaks here and there splashing hay bales on the barn floor below, and Clark doesn't know what to do with Lex's gift. He always struggles over what to give the friend who owns everything. Last year he gave an "I'm glad you're not dead or stranded on an island anymore" sonnet, but it felt inadequate, especially since it sucked, and he didn't remember to give it to Lex until after Belle Reve. He tried to write another poem this year, but just doesn't feel it. Doesn't know what he feels about Lex. 

He's seated on the arm of the couch, staring at this purple orb, a blown glass Christmas ornament that reminds him of the ones Lex uses to decorate his tree at the penthouse. Clark's not supposed to know anything about the penthouse, but he ran to Metropolis the Christmas before last just to watch Lex. He stood on the roof of the building across the way and used his x-ray to consider Lex considering his tree. He just wanted to feel close to him. 

He tosses the glass from palm to palm. Clark knows his behavior around his friend doesn't make much sense lately. He doesn't bother trying to trust, even when Lex proves himself again and again. He gets jealous, imagines Lex has some agenda with Lana, but that's not really the problem, even if it's true, and he knows it. 

He can't shake that room, darkness lit with nothing but images of himself, images to do with him, on giant screens. It's not just that Lex got too close, got stalker-scary, though that's part of it. But Clark can't manage Lex's darkness when he has darkness of his own less than a breath away. Kal-el always wants out. Sometimes Clark wants to let him. 

Flight. Can't wait to do that again, but his feet too earthbound. Something about Kal's lack of inhibition took him into the sky. Lex could probably do it if he had Clark's abilities. 

Kal liked Lex the first time they met. The second time Kal behaved like an asshole, but he liked him anyway - just wanted to teach him a lesson about loyalty. When Kal thought Lex died.... Not much touched Kal, but that did. That hurt. Tonight Clark wants to dress in black, run, maybe even fly, through the rain to Metropolis, let Kal out to play with Lex. He'd give him this ornament, watch Lex wonder, watch the realization take, relish his anger at the violation. 

Clark doesn't give himself time to think anymore, doesn't understand his motivation, just tucks the gift close to his chest, launches himself past his telescope and into the wet night sky. Ice storm predicted for the early morning hours, and he knows it's cold to humans now, but this feels like a summer rain, like hard wind he felt come off the surf when he ran to Florida with that fast kid a couple months ago. It feels good, like nothing and everything and he's alone high up in the dark, in and out of the clouds, better than he remembered. He's Kal again, just for tonight, and when he lands in a few minutes he'll smash a department store window, steal something tight and black. Something tight and black and just for Lex. 

* * *

Lex drops his drink when the emergency exit door to the stairwell he's never used explodes into the foyer -splinters from the frame, shrapnel from the armored door itself, fly across his Botticino floor. He half expects his father and a troop of minions in uniforms without insignia, but when he looks up it's Clark dressed head to toe in formfitting black, something clutched to his chest. 

"I don't have anyone to clean your mess, Clark. I sent the staff home for the holiday." He thinks he's shouting. He doesn't feel in control, not at all. Throws him off-balance that Clark barely tries to hide his abilities lately, yet lies when he points them out. "What - " he stops himself from asking, runs a hand across his head, shakes it and turns away. "Do you need a favor? Is it some emergency?" 

That breath on his neck. That breath he only just craved, and he wishes he could express surprise at how fast Clark got across the room, but nothing surprises him anymore. Maybe he expected this intrusion. 

He sees their reflection in the window, Clark's gaze decidedly proprietary, definitely hostile, as he takes in Lex's back, his skull. He feels like a chicken about to have its neck wrung. 

"I brought you a gift," he says as he pulls Lex to him from behind, holds something close to his face, too close to see clearly at first. Lex tries to push it, the thing, away, but Clark's forearm, rigid as a train track, stops him. 

"Back off," he says, but Clark doesn't budge. Not alcohol. Lex could easily believe the kid as a bad drunk, but he only smells rain when he turns to catch his scent. Breathes him deep because he loves the way Clark smells, but he can't stand this immobility. 

"Not until you tell me you like it." Clark tilts his hand far enough away for Lex to get a good look at a blown glass ornament that might have come from his own tree if he had any trimmings in that particular shade of purple. None of his come with streaks of red and blue at the crown like this one. 

Anger that Clark somehow knows how he decorates his tree in the _penthouse_ , damn it, but he won't give in, won't let him see. Lex lifts his hand, the one not pinned by Clark's too-close body, to try to touch. "It's lovely," he says. But just as he almost reaches the glass, Clark yanks it away. 

"Not yet." 

Too. Much. "You abandoned your parents on Christmas Eve and broke into my penthouse god knows how, just to play keep away?" In the reflection, Clark smirks like Lex has only seen twice before. The first time he saw it he had to imagine Victoria with a mouthful of his father just to will his hard-on away. The second time he didn't have an erection problem - more a don't piss yourself, Lex _situation_. Now he's caught between the two reactions. "What do you take to get like this?" Meth's so common in the Midwest. It's just the kind of drug a farm kid would snort, maybe smoke through a hollowed Bic pen above a sheet of aluminum foil. 

"Don't ask me dumb questions. I'm more sober than you, and I want to do something. What's open in Metropolis on Christmas Eve? We could go clubbing." Clark switches the ornament from his right to his left hand, and with his long reach, hangs the new addition on the tree. He still keeps Lex pinned, forearm across his chest. It's hard to breathe this way, that grip too tight to press forward, so Lex has to press back a bit to fill his lungs. 

"I'll admit I have some power in this town, but even I can't get businesses to stay open on Christmas Eve. You don't really expect clubs to stay open in _Kansas_ on the occasion of our Lord's birth, do you?" Slow inhale and exhale on his neck - Clark's not even a little nervous about their proximity. 

"You're no Christian, Lex," and when he speaks it tickles Lex's ear. He wants to like the feeling, but he also wants to pop Clark in the jaw for the presumption. Wishes he had the leverage to do the latter. It seems more appealing just now. 

"But _they_ are, or most of them anyway, if you believe the hype," he says, gesturing at the whole city through the window. "I can't give you the good time you want. You should go." You never should have come in the first place, he thinks. Get out. 

And stay. Stay the night. 

Wonders whether Clark even gets that the threat he's making right now is sexual. He does it perfectly. Naturally. But does he know? Any second now Lex expects a hard cock against his ass. 

This thought triggers the chain reaction. The few amicable moments they've shared since summer don't outweigh the hostility coming off Clark lately. Lex doesn't have it in him anymore to prove himself to this too-demanding god. He's never allowed Clark to see his sexual interest - never risked learning whether or not the man he calls his best friend subscribes to the same provincial homophobia as so many of their fellow Kansans. But there's nothing left to lose now. He only has to check the reflection of the foyer behind him to see the damage to their relationship. They have nothing to salvage. Maybe giving up on his father led him to give up Clark, too. Lex expects he'll come out of all this a much stronger man than before. 

They consider each other in silence for several long seconds, Clark obviously using his size and strength to intimidate, but Lex has an answer. Makes sure he has eye contact in the glass before pressing his ass slowly but firmly against Clark's groin. 

Whatever possessed Clark appears to flee momentarily, his arm dropping away on a gasp. Lex doesn't waste the opportunity, turning, pressing his own forearm to Clark's chest, and forcing him back into the marble column behind him. He's farmboy sweet again, eyes wide. Lex doesn't look away from his face as he lowers both hands to Clark's button fly and yanks open his jeans. Hooking his thumbs over the denim at either hip he pushes them down just enough to expose what he's wanted so long. 

"What are you doing, Lex?" 

He looks scared. It's perfect after such a grand, stupid entrance. He doesn't laugh, doesn't put the kid at ease. Instead he asks, "What did you think would happen tonight, hmmm?" His question probably a purr since it coincides with a first, leisurely stroke of Clark's soft cock. He looks down, watches his hand clench, pull, twist. Memorizes the sight since he'll likely never have this again. 

It's a gorgeous cock. Long, thick, just like he'd expect. Uncut. Still soft, but that doesn't bother Lex as he never really expected this much contact anyway. Any second he knows Clark will snap out of his stupor, lift Lex over his head and toss him 30 stories to his death. He won't need that chaise to break the window after all. 

* * *

If Clark's not mistaken that's his _dick_ in his former best friend's _hand_ , and that hand keeps moving in ways his own hasn't ever figured out to do before, not that he hasn't... 

but _this_ , and it's kind of not terrible. 

But his dad would kill him so dead, powers or no, if he could see Lex with his... and Clark with _his_. Oh no. 

Because he shouldn't let anyone do this to him. They talked about bad touching in school when he was a kid, and this definitely feels like what they described. So it's good Dad can't see. 

Bad. 

Touching. 

It feels bad. Yes. Feels very bad. In a fantastic way. And isn't he kind of too old and way too strong and too fast for anyone to touch him in a way he doesn't want? Ooh. No. Clark doesn't want to go there. He's straight. Really. Or he wouldn't feel this way about Lana. Except that the couple of times she's thrown herself at him he's kind of freaked. Yet when Lex stands close to him.... 

No. Not an issue. He's Jonathan Kent's son. He's from Kansas. He lives on a farm. They don't come any straighter than that. 

He's trying to get back his Kal mojo, but so far he just wants to stare, but not. No. No staring, Clark. Stop it. He looks up at Lex's face, which also seems like kind of a bad idea. 

Because "Lex?" Lex doesn't stop what he's doing. The look on his face. God. If anything, he looks like he plans to keep doing, keep.... 

Okay, he can say it, even if it sounds like a whisper in his head, _jerking him off_ , and that's just weird. They're guys. Friends, or they were friends. He should stop this. Any second now. 

"You're hard for me." Huh? Clark looks down, and sure enough. He's hard. Shit. And that feels good. Feels great. Better than Lana or Chloe or anyone. He should tell Lex to stop. 

Stop, Lex. 

He didn't say that out loud. 

Stop, Lex. 

No. Still didn't come out. 

Lex, stop. 

Shit. And now his mouth's open, and he's breathing hard, and he's sweaty, and about to "Aaah," moan. Which won't convince Lex to stop at all. Tries to speak again, but only says, "aaah," again. And Lex looks. Lex looks turned on. Oh God. He has to do something. So he does. 

Tough to do superspeed in his condition, but in under a second he has Lex where he wants him, where he needs him, and he's Kal again, and Lex looks less turned on than just scared. He has Lex naked, wrists tied to ankles by strips of leather torn from the couch where he's on his back, spread eagled. And terrified by the look of it. It's the hottest thing Kal has ever seen. 

* * *

"That's not quite right," Kal says from where he kneels, this time ripping a long strip of leather from the couch slowly enough to show what he's doing. He stretches part of it across Lex's mouth, then wraps it around the back of his head and forward again a few times, layers of hide amassing over his tongue. He knots the remainder so twin strands dangle from an ear. It looks grotesque - a bundle of leather knotted at the side of his head, a bundle holding his jaw open but gagged. Perfect. "No talking," he says, tapping Lex on the nose. 

"Ever see a rodeo?" Lex shakes his head no, and the leather creaks a little where he chews it. Kal closes his eyes, slows his breathing, gives himself time to access his determination, his warped inner-peace. When he feels ready, he opens them, speaks as if he'd never taken time to collect himself, "Well they're kind of cool. Girls barrel racing, guys riding bulls - stuff like that. Anyway, you look like you belong in the calf-roping competition, except they have this thing called the `no jerk rule' now." 

Kal stops talking, swallows, and closes his eyes again to keep from shaking. Kal doesn't _get_ nervous. Kal just _is_. It's all about being. When he feels ready, his eyes snap open, and he says, "It means once you've lassoed the calf from your horse you can't yank hard on the line, hurt the animal. I think we'll suspend that rule tonight." Lex just blinks when Kal pulls hard on one of the thongs binding wrist to ankle. It should hurt to have his knee and hip joints wrenched like that, but nothing. No response. 

Kal studies Lex, whose upper back and head rest on plump, purple silk pillows, lower back and ass on brown leather seat cushions. His hands and feet dangle, trussed, in the air on either side of Kal's body. Not an especially dignified position. When he leans back a little, Kal can see Lex's asshole. 

Kal has this weird urge to bite Lex on the inner thigh. He points and says, "I know the muscle groups. Memorized them for school." Since he's all about the weird urges tonight, he follows through - leans forward as he says "Vastus medialus," and then teeth sink through flesh to muscle. 

Lex jerks, and that's kind of nice, but it's not enough, so Kal runs his mouth down a couple of inches, licking blood, skin, on his way and says "sartorius," biting through again. He stays here longer, licking and sucking the area, debating whether or not he's into the flavor of blood. Maybe not. He leans back, watches Lex's thigh bleed a moment, decides it's a visual thing, the red beautiful against all that pale. 

He thinks he could maybe stand to lick and suck awhile longer if he didn't have to taste the blood. That decided, he takes some deep breaths before holding Lex's leg still, and uses his heat vision to cauterize the wounds. It's kind of funny the way the rest of Lex's body flops around on the couch while his thigh remains perfectly still in Kal's grasp. The skin pops and sizzles, and there's an awful stench for a second, but then it's gone. He lets go to absently stroke his own cock a couple of times, and then licks and sucks his way up and down Lex's thigh, paying special attention to the new burn marks while Lex shakes. 

"Or no. Maybe you're not a calf. More a frog like in biology class. You know what I mean?" Lex, eyes wide, blinks once. "Yeah. You look kind of like that. Only there'd be straight pins sticking you to a tray of wax, right?" Kal pushes Lex's knees wide apart, forces them past the point of resistance, until they touch leather. "Hell of a stretch." But no flinch. Maybe it's nothing compared to what he just did. "That's gotta hurt. Why don't you make a sound?" Kal lets go, watches Lex's knees pop back up in the air. Now he winces, but Kal doesn't really notice, lost in thought. "Straight pins wouldn't do the job. We'd need something bigger. Bigger than nails, even." 

Kal stands, pulls his pants up but doesn't rebutton them, looks around the room as Lex begins to struggle. Over his shoulder, Kal calls "You shouldn't have crossed the line, Lex." He stops, turns, "Do you have shish kabob skewers?" 

* * *

Oh. Shit. Lex does _not_ want Clark to find the skewers. He has several sets, in fact - all stainless steel and part of the package that came with the outdoor kitchen on the terrace. Maybe he's in luck. Maybe Clark won't think to look outside for cooking utensils. 

Doesn't ease the panic. He's so cold. Shivers like he's in a blizzard. Knows he's in shock from the burns on his thigh, but can't indulge the self pity. He rolls to his side and lets himself fall from the couch. Bumps his nose when he hits the carpet, but it's soft at least, the pad underneath the thickest available. From here he finds he can sort of crawl. It's not quite hands and knees, more knees, tops of feet, and head, with his temple pressed to the floor. But he inches forward as fast as he can, which means not. very. 

He won't reach the button to call the elevator stuck down low like this, but he might get through to the emergency stairs. He's shaking so hard. Tries not to think about his bare ass poking up in the air or rug burns to his wrists as they drag alongside his ankles. Tries to think positively. Maybe security will see him once he gets out of the penthouse. Maybe they won't sell the videotape of his predicament to The Inquisitor. Either way, he's pretty sure he remembers paying for stairwell cameras. 

But. He broke Clark. Apparently he underestimated the struggle between Clark's homophobia and his desire for Lex. Angst over sexual identity didn't seem as big a deal at boarding school. Everybody did guys. Or, lots of guys did, anyway. It's not like they had much choice if they didn't want to go through the entirety of their school years celibate. 

And why did Clark burst in here tonight? Maybe he didn't break him. Maybe Clark broke himself by provoking Lex's response to the intrusion. If he could just talk around the gag he could make this argument, even if it does sound like his dad's brand of manipulative logic. 

He hates not getting to talk, hates the feel of this wad of soggy leather making his jaw ache. 

Lex has only just crossed from living room carpet to foyer marble when Clark drops to his knees beside him. His jeans still hang open, cock still hard, but Lex has a problem. All the skewers. That's _all_ of them hanging from his belt loops. How the hell did he not hear the patio door? How long has he struggled along the floor? How long has Clark watched him? 

"They weren't in the kitchen, but I found them anyway. Nice grill, by the way. We should cook out some time." Calm words, but he swallows hard, pulls one of the long spikes and runs the point lightly across Lex's neck. "You look...." He's flushed, panting. God. Maybe he can endure the pain just to _see_ Clark this way. 

Lex feels the tip of the skewer dig in now as it's drawn from shoulder to lower back. It stings, and he feels blood dribble here and there where the steel cuts. Clark licks his lips. His concentration looks beautiful. 

Funny how the bravado's waning, yet Clark still wants to hurt him. Funny how Lex lets the panic go, though he can't stop shaking. An aesthetics to violence. Lex knows this. His father taught him to appreciate the beauty in all classical battles, and here's one of his own. He thinks if he could reverse their roles, if he could go at Clark with one of these skewers, he'd be as Achilles to Cygnus - spear striking true but clanging off, useless. That's admirable. Such allure to Clark's violence, his apparent indestructibility. Gorgeous like rivers in Ovid that run purple from the blood of battle. He could make himself a human sacrifice - just - let whatever comes next _happen_. Maybe he loves Clark enough. He can love him as a brother in arms, or he can love him as a worthy foe. It doesn't matter. It's all beautiful. 

Except when he's flipped on his back, the steel jammed through his shoulder and lodged in the _floor_ , he doesn't feel so god dammed generous anymore. It _hurts_ enough to make him break a sweat, body temperature slams from icy to feverish, stomach upset so he's sure he'll choke to death on his own vomit if Clark doesn't take out this gag. He's pleading with his eyes, grunting, panting, but Clark just pulls another skewer. 

Fuck. He did _not_ take that pass well. No. So maybe Clark's not as gay as he thought. 

Meanwhile here's Lex, _staked_ to his fucking _floor_. He won't get over this soon. He'll call Belle Reve himself if he lives through tonight. 

At least when the next one comes he sees it - watches Clark push the skewer through his other shoulder with nothing but his bare hand. Hurts just as much the second time, but part of his brain registers that Clark doesn't even have to lean over, use his body weight, to push the spike through. 

And that's it - game over - the vomit spewing into his throat, his nose, the gag. Choking. He's choking, and it burns his esophagus, his sinuses. So much humiliation, but he's panicked again, not breathing, choking and choking and tears running down his temples - this has to stop, has to - Clark's no monster - but he can't breathe, would give up controlling interest in LuthorCorp for one breath, Clark not doing anything, not helping, not rescuing like he _does_ , except this time, when he's fucking _caused_ this, which makes no sense, no breath, no air, and just when the room starts to go dark he gets some relief as the gag comes free, Clark tossing it aside. Lex can only turn his head to vomit what's left, mostly alcohol and some shrimp from a luncheon this afternoon. Should have known to stay away from seafood after the island. Bad luck. Finally, when he finishes coughing, he turns to look at Clark. 

And mock-seriously, when he catches his breath again, says "This friendship is _over_." Doesn't know why he laughs, but he does. He's hysterical. He's cracked himself up, hurling Clark's own words back at him all these months later. It's just so funny though. It's so inadequate, but it's all he has. All he can think of to say, shocky again, the feverish feeling gone, and he's so cold, so cold his teeth have started to chatter. 

* * *

Kal loves the way Lex fights him, even in defeat, even while shivering. "I don't know if I should use the rest of the skewers," he says, pulling the bundles from his belt loops and spilling them across the floor. "You look so ..." doesn't want to say it, even as Kal, so he doesn't. "I don't want to destroy that. But I have them, you know? Kind of a waste not to." 

Lex just looks at him like he's nuts, which, okay, maybe. But then he's talking, and Kal has to focus to actually hear him. "There's an artistry to what you're doing, Clark. I know you don't realize it, but I feel like I'm," grits his teeth before he finishes, like it's beneath him to say, "your living sculpture. All the best sculptors know when to stop." 

"You must think I'm an idiot to fall for that," Kal says as he picks up three spikes, positions them over the same thigh he marked earlier, but Lex doesn't panic. His heart speeds up, sure. Whose wouldn't? But he looks calm despite the teeth clacking together, and Kal admires the hell out of him for that. He positions the metal tips about an inch apart from each other. Makes a big show of adjusting their positions. Lex still doesn't move, but he's talking again. 

"Seriously." He says more urgently, "You've proven your point, and anything more would be overkill, don't you think?" He says it like they're talking in Lex's library over a game of pool. The familiarity's almost enough to make him stop. 

Kal looks him in the eye. He thinks he might have stopped, but he can't let Lex have control. It doesn't seem like a very Kal thing to do, so he drives all three skewers through flesh and muscle, his one concession - going around bone, straight into the floor, and tries to savor the howl his act elicits. No, he thinks, Lex is right. This friendship is over. 

"You're listing to the right now," he says. "Bad for symmetry." But he doesn't want to do more damage. Kal's play makes him almost as nauseous as it does Lex, who's currently dry heaving. And who smells like vomit. 

Kal wants to enjoy this. On Red K he knows he would, probably, but the whole night's so forced. Doesn't know if he'd have gone this far without Lex coming onto him, but he feels less thrown by it now, starting to get back the Clarkish horror he always gets after one of Kal's binges. He wants to hold off boring-Clark just a little longer - hang onto oh-so-doesn't-give-a-shit-Kal. 

He picks up another handful of skewers, but can't make himself do worse when he looks at Lex, whose complexion has gone gray. "You have really dark circles under your eyes." Lex doesn't answer. "And you stink." 

Throws his handful of metal at the nearest wall, all the sharp ends embedding perfectly in the plaster. He slides his forefingers through the loops at the ends of Lex's shoulder spikes and pulls them out as slowly as he can. Enjoys the effect. On the one hand, he's ending Lex's confinement. On the other, he's doing it in as mean a way as Kal would. Next, he pulls the leg spikes. 

"You're getting blood all over the marble," he tells Lex, but he lifts and carries him like a bride through the penthouse until he finds a bathroom that looks almost as big as the loft back home. When he looks down to tell Lex as much, he sees he must have passed out along the way. 

He looks - and Clark thinks he can maybe admit it a little bit with Lex sort of asleep - 

beautiful. 

* * *

Lex can't decide which makes him angrier, that he _fainted_ or that when he comes to it's to Clark bathing him in the sunken bath of his master suite. At least he's not cold anymore. Must have slept awhile. His fingertips look wrinkled. 

Clark sits on the lip of the tub in jeans he doesn't notice getting wet. They're still open, still flashing that cock Lex has tried to picture for years. Clark's gentleness contrasts obscenely with all that's happened tonight as he soaps his scalp with the wet rag and tips Lex back to rinse. He won't allow it. "I'm not a dog, Clark," he rasps. 

"I know. A dog would smell better." The hard words accompany a soft stroke across Lex's back, then a dip into the puncture in his right shoulder. 

"You can get your fucking hands off me now," Lex says, his hoarse voice just not conveying how pissed he feels as he splashes away. Hurts so much where the skewers went in he can't believe he's actually capable of motion. Unfortunately, Clark does that high speed thing and stops him from getting out of the other side of the tub. Shoves his head underwater long enough to choke him again, and then he's allowed up to cough, suck air. 

It's getting old, and Lex tells himself to try to remember trauma always contains an element of tedium. One _can_ suffer and feel bored at the same time. Maybe knowing will help him learn to deal with crisis better the next time. This time, however, the knowledge does nothing for him. Maybe if he could get past the fact _Clark's_ torturing him - Clark who _saves_ everyone. 

"Stay right here," Clark says. In as long as it takes Lex to nod he hears what sounds like a shotgun blast. Clark's gone and then back. Lex places the noise after another second - the sound of the top drawer of his bathroom vanity opening and slamming. He knows because Clark's brushing his teeth, rough strokes across his gums, higher speed vibration across the enamel than a Sonicare, and he can't stand how apt his dog reference feels right now. Can't spit out the brush, but he tries, and wants so hard to get away, but Clark has the back of his head between thumb and middle finger, he guesses, in what feels like a c-clamp. It's over fast enough, though, when Clark says "spit." 

Lex looks at the water tinged pink from his blood and tries to convince himself this experience has nothing on one of his bad days on the island. He spits into the bath, pretends it's no big deal to soak with what's left of the vomit from earlier, but he hates it. 

Except it's gone when Clark splashes the gob out of the tub and across his black marble floor. He won't let himself feel grateful for the gesture, especially when Clark drops in beside him, fully clothed, and drapes a proprietary arm across his aching shoulders. Feels himself go lightheaded again when Clark squeezes him in a way that mocks the familiarity they once shared, so he can only think to ask "Why? Why are you doing this Clark?" in a voice that sounds as weak as he feels. 

Surprise when Clark answers, "Kal wanted out to play." Not sure what to do with what sounds like a non sequitur but apparently isn't. Breath against his face, lips grazing his temple, and then Clark's forehead pressed to his cheek. "You just don't know how hard I have to work to keep him in check sometimes." Hard swallow, a whispered "I'm so sorry, Lex. I know it's wrong, but he doesn't, and I let him take over tonight. I didn't expect him to hurt you." And just like that, he feels his face cradled between big palms, his head turned to the side, and he's caught in a moment that _almost_ seems safe when Clark kisses him. 

Stupid to let this happen without fighting back, but he's so tired. 

* * *

Clark's never tasted anything as good as Lex as he forces the kiss. Can't help but notice Lex not responding, not kissing him back, but it doesn't matter. He loves the feel of a _man's_ lips against his, a strong man, one he's bested in, okay, _not_ a fair fight, but still. He had it coming. Lex should learn not to grope teenagers if he doesn't want to suffer the consequences. 

"I'm not gay," he says, pulling back to look into tired blue eyes. Resigned, maybe. Weird to think of Lex giving up. "You're just an anomaly. An experiment, I guess. I can experiment without having you make me this way." 

"Do you hear yourself?" Lex asks. It's all but a whisper. He probably doesn't have much strength for talking judging by the way his eyes keep trying to roll back in his head. Clark lets Lex slump against the tub so he can take off his jeans. 

He wants them skin to skin, _naked_ , under the water, and that thought, so dirty, makes him instantly hard. He pulls his pants down, savors the way his bare body feels moving through liquid warmth, the way his jeans make a satisfying "thwap" when he tosses them into a far corner of the room. Two naked men in a tub. Wow. Not sure why he feels so much better naked in a bath with Lex than he feels when he takes a bath alone, but he's willing to go with it. 

Thinks about the way he and Pete used to snicker when they said that word as kids. Nekkid. Nekkid. It sounded so dirty. Still pretty much does. Clark says it again, but just in his head. Nekkid. 

Lex looks like he might slip under and not come up again if Clark doesn't catch him first, so he does, and ooh, _nice_ , skin to skin. He maneuvers Lex like a doll, moves his legs so they straddle his lap, and wow, even better, Clark's cock nestled in that crease between balls and thigh. They're not quite chest to chest, more Lex's chest to Clark's mouth, so he sucks a nipple, gets no reaction at all. "You're not moaning. I want you to moan." 

"What happened to you, Clark?" whispered above him. "This isn't you." He looks up, tries to catch the expression on Lex's face, but he only gets chin and long throat as Lex's head lolls. 

"I told you, it's Kal's doing," he says as his teeth graze from adam's apple to ear. So smooth. No stubble like you'd expect on a man's throat, but still hard underneath - firm tendon, muscle, heartbeat as he skims back down to jugular. So hot. "I think Kal really wants to fuck you, Lex." 

His voice comes back just a little, just enough for that cocky tone he normally uses to pierce right through him when Lex says, "I don't know who Kal is, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest he's not the one dying to fuck me right now." 

Clark's hands slip where they've been holding Lex, and he almost drops him, almost squeezes too tight, what with the water and all that _skin_ , as he tries to reestablish his grip, water sloshing out of the tub, but damn that hit a little closer to true than he wants to believe about himself. And yeah, he doesn't quite get why he's acting more like a meteor mutant than Clark Kent. If he's honest with himself, he knows Kal on his worst day never hurt anyone so much, never had such sadistic impulses, but he hasn't let himself _think_ tonight. 

He feels like a bad actor, like maybe he's done a poor job portraying a character he thought he knew. Sure, he knows Kal's thoughts, and they never involved hurting Lex. When he thought Lex died... and then when Lex came back, found Clark on the farm instead of Kal in the city.... If Lex found Kal instead.... 

Clark rests his forehead against Lex's chest, wishes it worked out that way instead, with the _real_ Kal showing Lex his feelings. He thinks, just maybe, they'd work out together. As a couple. 

And what does that say about what _Clark_ wants? 

Shit. 

And what has Clark done but make his apparently deepest, darkest wish impossible in one horrible, homophobic night. That _has_ to explain his meanness to Lex. 

If he could just get the way his dad would react to having a gay son out of his head.... 

But that won't help what's happened with Lex. 

He looks up, but Lex's head has lolled again. Clark pulls him close, angles his forearm beneath his ass, and lifts him out of the tub. He's so light. It's nothing to carry him through the master bedroom, both dripping a path into the carpet, little taupe spots against tan when Clark turns to survey the damage. But what's some water compared to everything else he's done tonight? 

Clark leans Lex against the wall, superspeeds back to the bathroom for a couple of towels, and catches Lex before he can crash to the floor. He's so out of it, eyes not even open. Towels him dry as gently as he can, then speeds through drying himself. 

Clark hesitates at the bed, but after everything else.... 

So he pulls back the comforter, blanket and top sheet, eases Lex in and climbs in on the other side. 

God. He really does want to fuck him. So beautiful asleep with those dark circles under his eyes, looking so pale, so _fragile_. It's just the way he looked in Belle Reve when for once Clark had the balls to just _be_ in front of Lex, not hide. How many different times and in how many different ways has he screwed up the most important relationship in his life? 

How long has he loved Lex? 

Oh God. 

* * *

Nothing's more irritating than finding oneself licked awake with that switch flipped. That switch - the one that feels as if the little Jewish kid, the one whose birth this night commemorates, cosmically twitched his finger, sending every sexual urge Lex has ever had for Clark Kent to the Arctic Circle. Clark licks that same spot on his neck he licked earlier, in the bath, and it chafes. 

"Stop it," he commands. Or tries to, still too hoarse to sound authoritative. 

"I'm sorry. So sorry." He stops licking, looks up at Lex from under his bangs, practically batting his lashes. It's nothing but manipulative, and he wonders why he never realized it before. Switches. Light switches, power switches, buttons, fucking _levers_ getting thrown. And for the first time Lex sees Clark as completely aware of his ability to charm, to seduce. How many times has he fallen for it? 

It won't work now. Won't ever work again. 

"Get out of my bed. Get out of my room. Get. Out. Of. My. Home," Lex says, trying to sound like he has any power left. Clark looks a little stunned, his bottom lip trembling. "And don't you cry. Don't you dare cry. Not after all this." 

"But Lex," he says, obviously floundering, "I can't leave. Not until I fix tonight." 

"You don't get to fix it. You get to leave. Now." Clark seems unaware of the way his fists bunch in the sheets on either side of Lex. 

He doesn't even seem to notice he's inching closer as he says, "But you and me. You know - us. You were right. About us." And he's shoving his knee between Lex's thighs, hurting Lex again where he burned him before. Where he impaled him before. Lex tries so hard to keep his thighs together, but they're nothing to Clark's strength. Like having a telephone pole come down on him, and he has to open or lose his legs. 

He feels the wounds from earlier seep, blood dripping onto sheets. Fuck. 

"Stop, god dammit. Get OFF me," he says, but Clark's not listening at all, shoving his other knee where Lex tries not to allow him room, and he's prying now with both knees, prying Lex's legs apart so easily, too easily, and it hurts so fucking much against the burns, the punctures, and it's going to hurt so much more, in soul-hellish ways, if he doesn't stop this, but Clark's not fucking listening. 

Shoves his tongue into Lex's mouth as if to shut him up. Lex bites, but Clark kisses him that much harder for it. No damage done to soft tissue, wet, firm tongue, but no damage at all, and Clark has to have some kind of vulnerability. He's seen him hurt. He needs to find out. He'll make it his life's work to find out how to hurt this son of a bitch who's kissing and kissing, and it's the worst kind of violation not to have a way to expel that tongue from his mouth. 

Stops kissing long enough to drag lips across Lex's cheek, mouth close to Lex's ear, and whisper, "I realized. You showed me, and I freaked out on you, and you _have_ to understand, just _have_ to, but I finally realized, Lex. I finally _got_ it, like you wanted me to." He lifts up on elbows, looks Lex in the face in what looks like a parody of a Jonathan Kent man-to-man as he says, "I'm in love with you." 

"You think this is good news, Clark? You think this is something I want to hear?" Tries to wiggle out from under since he can't force his way past, but Clark pins him with his full weight, hard cock wedged against his own soft member. Hard not to panic, but he feels buried alive. Would have killed to hear these words just yesterday, but they sound obscene now. "Let me _up_. Get _off_ me." 

"I can't do that. I'm going to show you how I feel, make you understand. I'm going to show you I'm not afraid to be gay. I'm going to do it for you, Lex, so just be still." 

Hard not to shout "Don't do me any favors," but it sounds stupid and futile and his pride won't let him as he's flipped onto his belly, a pillow slid under his hips. 

"I've heard this helps girls - you know - _virgins_ " the last word sort of confided, some big, locker room secret apparently, and Lex hates to think he's meant to play the role of virgin in Clark's weird little romance-by-rape scenario. "I mean, I want to make you comfortable." 

Lex swallows hard before trying another tack, "I top. Exclusively. You might not know what that means, so I'll explain. It means _I_ fuck _you_ , not the other way around." Clark stops moving, the tip of his cock nudging Lex's hole, his legs spread wide, forcing Lex into an unbelievable stretch, his thighs on either side of Clark's at a ridiculous angle. On any other day he'd love this sprawl, back to chest, ass to crotch. He'd get hard. He'd bottom. He'd beg. Fuck. But he only feels revulsion now. Injured. Limp. Even if Clark takes his words as an offer, he can't perform. 

"You'd fuck me Lex?" The words apparently backfire as Clark moans, surges forward, cock breaching him hard, so he's half-buried in Lex's ass as Lex wails. "You'd fuck me?" he asks again, making a fetish of the words as he thrusts the rest of the way in, moaning, panting, mouthing Lex's shoulder as he chants "You'd fuck me, oh, you'd fuck me." Thrusting, setting up a powerful rhythm as he yanks out, slams back, pistoning hips, oblivious to the way Lex has gone completely silent, _gone_. 

"You'd fuck me," slam, "you'd fuck me," slam, "like, oh God, like, like, Oh God, like I'm fucking you, Lex." His bite pierces the skin over Lex's shoulder as he comes, but Lex doesn't seem to notice, still as death beneath Clark. 

* * *

Clark tries to luxuriate in the feel of Lex's ass around his softening cock, but it's too sensitive to stay inside, despite the absolute stillness of the body beneath him. He lets himself slip out, kisses that bare scalp he never expected to want to kiss, comes away with sweat on his lips, and rolls over. 

He half believes Lex will try to escape again, but nothing this time. He doesn't move except to breathe, face turned away, and Clark can admit to himself the rise and fall of upper-torso's a relief. He's always worried, sort of in the back of his mind, he'd shred a human during intercourse. But he didn't. Lex made it. And Clark's not a virgin anymore. 

He lets himself bask in the afterglow - dozes, but it's a light sleep. He listens for movement. Nothing. It's awhile later when he finally wakes enough to think about how they'll communicate after the sex. Could get awkward. Maybe all couples have problems talking after consummating their relationship. 

Not sure what to say to Lex now. He must feel pissed if he's used to, well, doing to, instead of what... what Clark _did_. To him. 

"It'll be better next time. You can be on top. I promise." 

Silence. 

"Come on, Lex. Talk to me." 

Waits a little while, but still nothing. Maybe he's asleep. Clark elbows him in a friendly way. 

"Are you hard? Because you can, you know, do it right now even, if that's what you need." Need might sound wrong to Lex, like Clark thinks he's needy, so he tries again, "If that's what you _want_. I don't mind. I'm sure I'll even like it. And you can't hurt me, so you can get as rough as you want." Still probably not the right words. "Except you're not in any shape to get rough, are you? That's my fault. But I'll like gentle just as much. Really. Just take what you, um, want. Okay?" 

Clark can't place what Lex feels by body language. Anger. He's sure of it. But. No. He won't let himself think that. He's ready for an end to hostility. Hurt? Still too negative an emotion. Sure he has tons of physical injuries, so vulnerable? Like people usually get when he saves them from... attackers. No. He won't go there either. But when people feel that way, they want someone to hold them. Clark goes with the idea of holding, because it's the one he likes best. Maybe Lex wants a hug. He's dealt with a lot tonight. 

Curling on his side, Clark grabs Lex under the arm furthest away, flipping him into a tight spoon. It's sticky now where ass meets crotch, and he doesn't let himself imagine what substances he feels. Just buries his face in the crook between neck and shoulder. 

Now he knows Lex doesn't sleep beside him, because no one unconscious could feel so stiff, so cadaverous. He's icy under Clark's grip, but starting to shake. Maybe he needs a hospital? 

"Are you okay?" he asks. 

The answer's quiet. First part of the word lost until his super hearing kicks, and he catches "...rrhaging" 

"Say it again. I can't hear you." 

More tension in the body in his arms, as if it takes a great effort to expel the word, but he does and this time Clark hears it. 

"Hemorrhaging." 

Not possible. But definitely, as Clark forces himself to think, to notice, to whip the sheet back and, yes, that's blood all over his crotch - that's the stickiness that fans out over his lower body and pools in the sheets all around them. So he really can, as it turns out, kill someone with his dick. 

Takes him no time to speed into the bath, spray himself down with the handheld shower nozzle, wrap himself in a towel. No more blood, but he doesn't feel clean. Looks at his soggy jeans in the corner, but there's no way to dry them in time without setting them on fire. Heat vision has its limits. Maybe Lex has sweats that will fit? 

He x-rays through the bathroom wall, the dresser in the bedroom, top drawer, next down, next, until he finds, there, yes - black sweat pants in the second drawer from the bottom. He speeds to the dresser, rips the drawer out, clothes flying everywhere , but he snags the pants before they join the rest of the clothing-sprawl. 

Tries not to think about how soft, worn these sweats feel against his bare skin as he dresses. Too short, but the drawstring waist works. They fit well enough for what he needs to do. Speeds back to the bathroom for his dry shirt, and ignores the way the black of the top doesn't match the more faded black of the sweats in his reflection in the mirror. 

Finds his shoes in the living room, but doesn't remember having taken them off. Shrugs. 

It all takes less than a second to accomplish, then grabbing a dry washcloth, wiping fingerprints from every surface in the penthouse, so he's back with Lex before it's possible to notice his absence, saying, "It's okay. I've got you," as he swaddles Lex in sheets, comforter. He'll have to take his chances leaving the jeans. 

Racing from the penthouse, Clark lets instinct guide him to the Metropolis General ER. He doesn't have to think about the route, having driven his father for checkups, surgeries. Doesn't notice the sleet, the snow flakes peppering Lex's scalp. He's just glad to get out of the penthouse, away from all that blood. 

He slips here and there on the empty streets, ice making the run difficult, but he never lets Lex fall. Finally, after too many near-spills, he sees a swirl of red and blue lights and behind that the clean, white shine of the trauma center. 

Double doors blow open, so the glass in each shatters as it slams into wall. Sheetrock looks gouged, too, as Clark glances back, but he doesn't care, just dumps Lex on the check-in desk before a nurse who hasn't seen them. He stops long enough to make sure he's balanced Lex okay before he speeds back out again to observe what happens from across the street. 

As he watches doctors and nurses swarm Lex, then lift him onto a gurney, he's glad tonight happened - glad he realized his feelings. Clark doesn't think he'll ever let Lex get away now. Lex will forgive him. And they'll have sex some more, but gently. 

Lex will get used to it. He'll have to. 

And if he doesn't? 

What's he going to do? 

It's a thought Clark should feel badly about, but right now he just doesn't. Clark finally had sex. He likes it. He'd like more soon. 

Plus Lex heals quickly. He forgot about that, but now that he remembers? 

Bonus. 

* * *

Lex fights. 

As the doctors announce the need to cut before they can stitch, he fights. As male nurses maneuver him into positions at least as degrading as others Clark forced him into tonight to have easier access to his injuries, he fights. He fights in absolute stillness, not twitching, not speaking, but he fights nonetheless. 

He won't go back to Belle Reve. Won't cry. Won't allow the crutch of catatonia or Julian-hallucination. 

Won't. Accept. Comfort. From. Anyone. 

WILL stop shaking. 

Will NOT talk about tonight. 

Won't forget. 

He taunts the Clark-monster in his head. He pisses on the voice of his father saying he brought this on himself. He rabbit-punches the ghost of Julian, then steals the pillow from his mother's hands to do what he didn't do the first time. He turns away from his dead brother to sheer the hair from his mother's head before decapitating her. He strangles Helen, burns Desiree alive, flays Lana and shoots Jason between the eyes before shitting on his corpse. He exhumes Amanda, reanimates her, then buries her alive in the Metropolis landfill. 

He ruins Jonathan and Martha Kent financially and keeps ruining them every time they think they've "turned things around." He forces them to live through year after year of failure. He keeps them alive. He relishes their poverty. He kidnaps Jonathan Kent, knocks him out, slips an electrode under his scrotum, and sends him home. He bugs the Kent farm. Every time Jonathan spouts a platitude he sends an electric shock into Kent's scrotal sack. Kent never figures out what causes the burn in his nuts. 

He recognizes faces beyond the ones circulating through his semi-consciousness - that doctor, there. Tim Nguyun. He set Lex's broken arm once. And her. The woman from the admitting desk. Peggy Sedilsky. She promised not to call his father that time with the laced weed and the twins from Manhattan. Doesn't remember their names, but she kept her promise. She's saying something to him, if he could hear her ... but it's tough over the screams of his father as Lex gouges out his eyes. They feel like warm, wet grapes against his thumbs. 

That's Perry White over her shoulder. Probably chased another story here but abandoned it when he spotted the crew working on him. That's an orderly trying to push him back through the curtain they pull around his gurney, but White won't budge. That's a look of pity on White's face, but it doesn't prevent his mouth from moving, presumably asking questions, nor does it prevent him from pulling a reporter's notebook and pen from his coat pocket. Fucking trench-coated ghoul. For White he produces a huge phlegm globule. Spits. Scores. That's real. It's oddly more cathartic than the murder fantasies. Oozes down his cheek, and White's pitying look transmutes itself into one of hatred Lex prefers for the moment. Good. 

He wonders what he might do to these people. Tries envisioning Peggy with a copper wire wrapped around her ankle, the end hooked to an empty light socket. He flips the switch. She jerks like an upside down marionette, and smoke streams from holes as they burn through her skin and uniform. Yes. He could do that. 

Tries tracing patterns in Nguyun's flesh with a scalpel. Okay. He can. Tries plowing with the instrument. He can. Uses the flat side to dig symbols from the cave wall into the man's ass and thighs. This one doesn't scream but groans, begs Lex to stop. He won't. 

"We've notified your people, Mr. Luthor. They're on their way, so you won't have to worry about the press." That's Nguyun, not groaning, but talking. Lex hears him now. They've given him the good shit, but it's wearing off. Fine. 

He has a plan. He _will_ follow through. 

Lex will work up to Nguyun and Sedilsky and the rest of tonight's emergency room team. He'll work up to Jason and Lana. He'll make it to Desiree, Helen, his father, his ghosts. The elder Kents. He'll work through everyone. He'll work through them all. 

No one survives this. No one alive survives this night. He'll kill every bit of life on this fucking planet because he knows now what he refused to believe before. Kindness lies. Innocence deserves death. Goodness? Never existed. He dreamed it. 

He'll spare no one. He'll destroy evil and therefore spare the naive from experiencing it. They're ants to him. As a corporate mercy killer, he'll teach humanity how this shithole world works. 

But he needs more than the kind of power money buys. That plan for the presidency ... yes. More necessary than ever before. 

After he's left Earth nothing but a bit of lava cooling in space he'll take what's left of his wrath out on Clark. 

Somehow he thinks they'll both still be around. Lex can't wait to get started. 

"Doctor," he asks, "How soon before I can check out?" 


End file.
